September 2026 | Autonomy

Om Namah Sivaya
Blessed Self,

As we enter the month of September, we look forward to Master Sivananda’s birthday celebrations on the 8th, and, as always, we remember our Guru, Swami Vishnudevanandaji and his practical teachings for the world.

However, our minds and hearts remain focused on Nepal, and the devastating natural calamity occurring there. For those of us unable to assist in person, we ask you to join us in chanting the mantra Om Namo Narayanaya for the peace of all those affected and Om Trayambhakam for the liberation of those who have lost their lives.

As followers of Swami Vishnudevanandaji, we know that Swamiji was always the first person to act and to support in any way he could during such calamities during his lifetime. When he was physically unable to assist, he asked us all to chant for relief of those involved and for peace to prevail in the affected areas. We are grateful for the more than 400 people who joined us online in collective prayer Sunday evening.

Another teaching that we received from Swamiji is that “Guest is God”. He always reminded us to ensure that ashrams and centres were clean and guest friendly so that guests would feel peace inside and then carry that peaceful feeling home with them. With this in mind we are working hard to improve guest facilities and to offer the teachings in their purest form, an aspect which has been appreciated by our guests and students.

We are happy to announce that as a part of Swami Vishnudevanandaji’s Centenary Celebrations we are conducting an Ekadasa Maha Rudram for World Peace chanting with Vedic priests on the on September 8 and 9 at our ashram in Gudur, Andhra Pradesh. All are welcome to join.

Following that, on September 11 and 12, we are hosting a very rare programme, the Sahasra Sankabhishekam for World Peace, conducted by a 103-year-old Swamiji from Coimbatore, who is travelling all the way to our Netalal Ashram in the Himalayas.

These celebrations are intended not only to pray for peace for ongoing conflict zones but to bring our community together and to send positive and peaceful vibrations around the world. Throughout Swamiji’s life he worked towards Unity in Diversity and offering prayers for peace. We feel it is our responsibility to do something in that direction with our humble efforts, and so we invite all of you to come and join us for these events.

Your support inspires us to continue Swamiji’s vision and to further the ongoing charitable projects that we have taken up.

May Master and Swamiji’s blessings be with you always.

Pranams,
Prahlada
Sivananda Yoga Vedanta Ashrams & Centres, India

How far a man is a free agent of his actions must be intelligently understood in the light of Vedanta. Then only can one get a satisfactory answer and solution. In the West, various competent men have discussed this matter from various standpoints. They have not yet come to any definite conclusions. They have taken the present only into consideration. This is a sad mistake. The present is only a fragment of infinity. If the infinite past and infinite future are also taken into consideration, they will surely arrive at a definite conclusion that will bring peace and solace to the restless mind. Just as the man who has seen one side of the shield only fights with another man who has seen the other side of the shield only, so also people who know partial truths only fight amongst themselves and engage in useless controversies and debates. Just as the man who has seen the two sides of the shield can easily settle the dispute of two persons who have seen one side of the shield only, so also a Vedantin alone, who has full knowledge of the whole truth can settle the dispute of those people who are trying to find out whether and how far man is a free agent of his actions.

Determinists say that the will of a man is as much bound by the law of causation as the rest of the phenomena of the universe. Ethics will fall down to pieces if there is no freedom for a man. There cannot be surely any moral responsibility where there is no freedom. How could a man he made to account for his action, unless he is a free agent of his deeds? How could reward or punishment be meted out with justice to a man if he has done an action out of compulsion, but not out of free choice? Man will be like an automaton or block of wood, his hands and feet being chained down tightly.

The consciousness of the Self makes a man feel that he is ever free. This idea of freedom is ingrained in the mind of every man. It is hidden in the consciousness of the Self. Though he has nothing to eat, though he is in very adverse circumstances, there is a peculiar instinct in man that prompts him to think that he is always free. Because the Nitya-Mukta (ever free) Atman is at the back of his mind, sentiments and feelings, he feels that he is free. He knows that he is bound and that he is encased in this tabernacle of flesh. He is fully aware that he is a slave of Maya and Avidya: and yet something inside tells him that he is free at the same time.

He has this double feeling because in essence he is the all-pervading mass of wisdom (Vijnanaghana Atman). He gets these flashes or glimpses of freedom even while he labours under straitened circumstances. There are encouragements for the struggling soul that come from within. He is in a dying condition. Doctors have pronounced the case as absolutely hopeless. Yet there is a shrill inner voice from within that says: ‘I am immortal, I am free.’ He cherishes an inherent feeling: ‘I am free though I appear to be apparently bound. This bondage is illusory.’

Sept 13 to Oct 10, 2026
Uttar Kashi, Himalayas

Sept 20 to Oct 18, 2026
Chiang Rai, Thailand

Oct 11 to Nov 7, 2026
Madurai, Tamilnadu

Nov 8 to Dec 5, 2026
Neyyar Dam, Kerala

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Oct 14 to 27, 2026
Uttar Kashi, Himalayas

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Sept 7 to Sept 21, 2026
Madurai, Tamil Nadu

Oct 1 to Oct 15, 2026
Madurai, Tamil Nadu

Oct 15 to Oct 29, 2026
Madurai, Tamil Nadu

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Nov 8 to Nov 22, 2026
Neyyar Dam, Kerala

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Dec 6 to 10, 2026
Neyyar Dam, Kerala

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Oct 20, 2026 to Dec 31, 2027

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How often during a yoga practice do we hear a teacher say, ‘listen to your body’? This statement holds one of the most important clues to a meaningful yoga practice: autonomy. Yoga practice is not just about following the instructions of a yoga teacher blindly. Yoga practices become deeply meaningful when you develop a relationship with your own body, breath and mind. Autonomy in yoga means having the freedom and awareness to choose how you move, breathe, rest, adapt, and experience your practice, rather than feel that you are performing a posture exactly as directed by the teacher.

How we feel in our body and mind is a unique and individual aspect of practice. We each arrive on the mat with a different body, different health history, varied energy levels, and different emotional states. And this is where autonomy becomes an essential part of the practice.

What Does Autonomy Mean in Yoga? Autonomy in yoga precisely is the ability to make informed choices during practice based on your own present-moment experience. And this may mean mindfully adjusting to the postures, taking break when you need rest, adjusting the pace of breath to the intensity of movement, choosing a variation that feels more supportive or using props to go deeper into the practice.

Autonomy as Self-Inquiry: Autonomy deeply supports self-inquiry and the practice of ‘Svadhyaya’ or self-study. There is so much that we learn about ourselves when we practice autonomy in yoga practice. We go deeper to find answers for queries like: what does my body need in this moment, or how much challenge feels appropriate today, or where do I feel resistance, or can I honor both my limitations and my potential? This ongoing dialogue develops self-awareness and trust and the potential to adjust the practice to one’s needs.

Asana Adaptations: When a teacher offers an asana adaptation, the idea is to make the practice more accessible for the individual practitioner. For example, in a forward bend, one person may comfortably reach the floor while another may benefit from instructions to stay more upright and to focus on breathing or tilting the pelvis, or on bending one leg. In a seated position for meditation or pranayama, one practitioner may sit directly on the mat while another may need a bolster or cushion.
Verbal Instructions: Inclusive verbal instructions deeply support and influence the students’ practice. Avoiding phrases such as, “if you can’t do this”, or “final pose” and allowing the asanas to manifest their asana differently gives the practitioner the direction to move according to the to their ability within the limits of the instructor’s guidance.

Use of Props: In some cases, straps, cushions, or chairs may be introduced as tools for those who struggle with particular asanas. Such props may help the body adapt and avoid compensation patterns. They may also support accessibility, comfort, and a better understanding of the asanas. They may allow slow and gradual progress in an asana rather than practicing with a sense of ego to achieve an asana.

Pace: A class may move at a particular rhythm, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that every practitioner is supposed to move in a same rhythm. Also, from day to day our practice may be different. Some days we may enjoy more dynamic movement, such as surya namaskar, other days we prefer a slower practice, sometimes the body needs repetition of an asana to be comfortable, and sometimes it needs stillness. Autonomy allows us to find our own pace in a practice that is unique to our individual needs.

Some journeys begin with months of research. There are itineraries to prepare, routes to download, videos to watch and reviews to read. Mine began differently.

Before starting my Narmada Parikrama, I deliberately chose not to research too much. I wanted to do it the old way. I wanted to walk and ask. Ask the farmer standing in his field. Ask someone sitting outside a village home. Ask the children playing nearby. Ask the temple priest. Ask the person who had walked the route before me. And sometimes, to find my own way.

My Narmada Parikrama covered 3,946 kilometres in 163 days—five months and thirteen days—including six days of rest. I walked through Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, and Gujarat, circumnavigating the Narmada River and crossing Ratna Sagar, where the river meets the Arabian Sea in the Gulf of Khambhat. Traditionally, the Narmada Parikrama is undertaken as a spiritual journey: a practice of renunciation, surrender and self-discovery. For me, it became all of this and something much more personal. It was the toughest journey I have ever undertaken, but also one of the most transformative.

Life became beautifully simple. My day began with morning sadhana. Then I walked until sunset. In the evening, I found an ashram or a place to stay in a village. There was evening sadhana and then sleep. Every morning, I woke up somewhere new. Every evening, I arrived somewhere unfamiliar. Every day brought new people, new food, new landscapes. and new surprises.

There was one question I heard almost every day: “Why are you doing this Parikrama?” It is strange to admit that I had not seriously asked myself that question before starting. Was I doing it for spirituality? Adventure? Self-discovery? Renunciation? A physical challenge? After hearing the question repeatedly, I began asking myself the same thing. Eventually, I reached a surprisingly simple conclusion.

I wanted to do it. So, I did it. Perhaps this is also how I have lived much of my life. The Narmada herself became symbolic of this for me. She is one of India’s great west-flowing rivers, making her way towards the Arabian Sea while many of the country’s major rivers flow eastwards towards the Bay of Bengal. There was something about this that fascinated me.

Friends who have known me for years have seen me change jobs, careers and cities. Some may consider it restless. Some may consider it foolish. But I have always felt that we are not trees. We can move. If something does not feel right, we can change direction. There is so much to experience in one lifetime. Why should we remain stuck somewhere simply because we began there? Human life is meant to evolve, not to remain attached to one identity forever. The Narmada made her own way. Perhaps I have always been trying to do the same.

One of the most beautiful parts of my journey was my connection with children. During the Parikrama, I had opportunities to stay in tribal schools. I taught children yoga, spoke with them, listened to their stories, and celebrated Republic Day with them. There were questions, laughter and long conversations.

One moment remains particularly close to my heart. Some children told me that they wanted to be like me when they grew up. It was a moment of enormous pride. I had walked thousands of kilometres without being able to clearly explain why I was doing it. Yet, without planning it, simply living the way I wanted to live had become meaningful to someone else. Sometimes, perhaps, the most powerful thing we can do is simply live honestly.

The journey also showed me a disturbing reality. In some tribal areas specially around Mandla and Dindori, people were sometimes afraid of me. At first, I did not understand why. As a Parikramavasi, I was usually welcomed with respect, food and shelter. Yet in some villages, people were hesitant.

Local people told me about real incidents in which criminals had entered vulnerable communities in disguise and abducted children and adults. They had also kidnapped people and stolen their kidney. The stories broke my heart. These remote communities often have limited access to education, information and support systems, making them particularly vulnerable to exploitation.

One incident has stayed with me. I was looking for a place to sleep and met a woman who was alone with her two small children. When I asked if I could stay, I could see her dilemma. Her faith told her to welcome a Parikramavasi, but her fear told her to protect her children. What if I was not who I claimed to be? I understood her immediately. I told her not to worry and that I would find another place to stay. The woman was not being unkind. She was being a mother. This incident still stays with me. That night, I was simply a woman walking the Narmada Parikrama. But to her, I was also an unknown stranger standing at her door. Sometimes, the greatest act of kindness is understanding another person’s fear and walking away without asking them to overcome it.

It is easy for someone like me, passing through villages and forests, to romanticise rural life: the simplicity, the beauty of nature, and the generosity of people. And much of it was indeed beautiful. But beauty and vulnerability can exist in the same place. Human trafficking and organ-smuggling is real. Sadly, I saw the fear in the eyes of these people in person.

I grew up in a small city and later moved to Delhi for work. My family has always been relatively liberal, and I was fortunate to grow up surrounded by strong women. I did what I wanted to do and believed that, if we worked hard enough, life was not too difficult for women. The villages showed me a different reality.

During the Parikrama, I saw how limited the freedom of many girls and women still is. Marriage at seventeen or eighteen is considered normal in some places. Even when women were incredibly strong, I sometimes felt that they had been conditioned to depend on men and tolerate things they should never have been expected to tolerate.

Almost every day, someone reminded me of something I apparently needed to remember: “You are a woman. Why are you walking alone?” Sometimes I answered politely. Sometimes, after hearing it one too many times, I answered sarcastically: “Thank you for reminding me. I thought I was a human being first.” There seemed to be an assumption that fear and dependence were mandatory conditions of being a woman. I offended quite a few people—and probably a few babas too—simply because I spoke confidently, walked alone, and was not visibly afraid.

But I often thought about Narmada Maiya. She is worshipped as feminine, yet she made her own way. She travelled through forests, mountains, valleys and plains without asking permission to follow the path expected of her. People pray to her. Sometimes, however, they forget the lesson in the story they worship. Faith can be beautiful, but following religion or tradition without reflection can make us preach values that we do not practise.

When I was young, I had a dream of living like a monk. Somehow, I found books about travelling monks and spiritual seekers. I read about Swami Vivekananda and Adi Shankaracharya. In television serials I watched rishis and sadhus travelling through forests, visiting distant places and living with very little. Something about that life fascinated me.

At the age of forty, I finally got to live that dream. For five months and thirteen days, I lived minimally. I depended on the generosity of others for food. I practised sadhana. I walked through forests. I stayed in villages and ashrams. Much of it was exactly as I had imagined. There was only one thing I expected but rarely found: deep discussion, shastrarth (spiritual debate), and a meaningful exchange of ideas. What I encountered often felt superficial to me. This is not a judgement of anyone; it was simply my experience.

Perhaps we have become accustomed to ready-made plans and instructions. We want someone to tell us what to do, what to believe, and which practice to follow. Sometimes, even spirituality becomes a programme that we repeat rather than an experience that we question.

For me, however, the most alive moments were rarely found in conversations. They were found outside.

I felt most alive sitting beside the river. Listening to birds. Walking through forests. Talking to trees. Watching cows, buffaloes, goats, monkeys, and every other animal I encountered. Sometimes, I felt they were more alive than humans.

Whenever possible, I chose the riverbank route. It was harder. Much harder.

The Narmada does not travel in a straight line. She turns, curves, and moves through rocky and hilly landscapes. Walking close to her meant crossing farms, forests, rocks, and difficult terrain. There were shortcuts. I preferred the long cuts.

The usual Parikrama route is around 3,600 kilometres, but I covered 3,946 kilometres because I mostly stayed close to Narmada Maiya. I happily walked hundreds of extra kilometres to avoid highways and busy roads. Only a small number of Parikramavasis choose to walk this way, and that gave me something I valued enormously: Peace.
Local people often advised me not to take difficult routes. Sometimes I listened. Sometimes I politely agreed. And occasionally, after they disappeared from sight, I continued exactly the way I had planned.

There were consequences. Sometimes I had to turn back. Sometimes I had to make my own way. Sometimes I discovered that the difficult route was far more difficult than expected. But strangely, even when I was exhausted, I was happy. The difficulty was part of the experience.

I often stopped to talk to farmers about crops and agriculture. They would offer me whatever they had growing at the time—tomatoes, cucumbers, sweet potatoes, radishes or chickpeas—and I happily accepted. I picked ber from trees whenever I found them. In summer, I enjoyed shahtoot.
These became some of my favourite foods during the journey. Food was no longer something selected from a menu. Sometimes it came directly from the land. Sometimes it came from the generosity of a stranger. I also learned to make fire and cook food over it. By the end of the Parikrama, my survival skills had improved dramatically. So had my intuition.

What overwhelmed me most during the Parikrama was gratitude. Every night before sleeping, I had people to thank. Someone had given me food. Someone had offered me a place to sleep. Someone had guided me. Someone had shared their home. Someone had simply been kind.

As a Parikramavasi, I experienced extraordinary generosity. People offered food and shelter without expecting anything in return. I ate and slept in different places every day, and each day reminded me how much goodness still exists in people.

Of course, being a single woman travelling alone brought its own challenges. Some people simply could not understand why I was doing it. Some even thought I must be a monk—or possess special powers—to walk alone through forests. The truth was less mysterious. I was simply walking.

With the grace of Narmada Maiya, I remained healthy throughout the journey. More importantly, I learned to remain balanced in changing situations. Every day was uncertain. Every day was a surprise. I learned to carry less. To accept what came. To depend on others. To be alone without feeling lonely. I learned and practised renunciation and equanimity, not as ideas, but as a way of living.

Of course, I am still not a monk. I offended people. I got angry. I became frustrated by litter on the riverbanks, the condition of women in some villages, children not attending school, and the lack of civic responsibility towards public property. Perhaps enlightenment will have to wait.

But as the Parikrama was coming to an end, I began wondering how I would return to the material world. Then I realised one of the most important lessons of the journey. To survive peacefully in the real world, we sometimes have to let go. Not everything needs judgement. Not every disagreement needs a reaction.

A long journey strips life down to its essentials. You walk. You eat. You sleep. You meet people. You observe. And you continue. Somewhere along the way, life begins to teach you.

I started this journey without researching every route or looking for every answer. Perhaps that was exactly how it was meant to be. By the end, I realised that I had never really been looking for answers. I was witnessing a river that had chosen her own path. And somewhere along those 3,946 kilometres, I was learning to walk my own. The Narmada Parikrama was the toughest journey I have ever undertaken. But I am deeply grateful that I did it.

-Priyanka Singh
TTC Graduate
Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh